Lesson Number One
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PostRENT] Roger tries to escape his pain and breaks an old promise to his best friend. MarkRoger. [Completed]
1. Nobody Can Share My Troubles

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the emo rock star or the adorable little filmmaker. Or the suicidal junkie. Or… any of the Bohemians. And the song, as usual, belongs to Anthony, who we all adore.

**Notes:** I honestly didn't know what to do with this song until Bethy suggested a general plot, so _thank you_, Beth-dear. Here is the first half of the fic—the second half is coming. I'm not sure whether I'm leaning towards slash on this or not. There are certainly undertones of it, but… Oh well. We'll see what happens in the second half.

* * *

**Chapter One – Nobody Can Share My Troubles**

_Nobody can share my troubles  
__This I know  
__And let me tell you  
__I have learned a lesson  
__Here I go_

_Don't you know  
It's just as sure as the rising sun  
Don't you know  
__To tell the truth is lesson number one_

Roger stared blankly at the bare skin of his upturned forearm, his gaze slowly tracing along the blue lines of veins scarred by needle marks. What would it hurt? Everything that could have gone wrong already had. He still had some smack under his bed. If he took it out… A needle in his arm could give him momentary oblivion, enough to forget the image of April in that tub, one vertical line of bright, _bright_ red on each arm…

He snarled and turned his arm so that he couldn't see the veins and track marks anymore, slamming himself back against the bed so hard that the impact made the headboard knock loudly against the wall. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, and then shut his eyes tight. He really should leave this room. It had too much of her in it. Every memory of the two of them together, here, in this room… He could have sworn he saw her out of the corner of his eye now and then, smiling at him in that coy way she had, or heard faint echoes of her voice, hanging in the air. Her scent still lingered on the sheets. At least he had made Mark take all the pictures of himself and April, just to get them out of his sight. He didn't have her pictures anymore… but he still had her heroin under his bed.

_And which one did I love more? Was it really her that mattered, or just getting high with her?_

It was thoughts like that that made him wish he could just… stop thinking altogether.

And he had one more thing April had left him. He didn't even have to look. That note still sat on his dresser, the yellow paper torn from a memo pad half-crumpled, but the words on it still legible, written in April's precise handwriting. _We've got AIDS. I love you. Goodbye._

Maybe just enough to numb him…

Roger jumped as a knock sounded at the closed door of his bedroom. When he didn't answer, the door swung open and Mark leaned in, bracing himself against the door frame. "Roger? Are you alright? I heard something bang."

Without opening his eyes, Roger said, "Yeah. I just… it was nothing. I'm fine." It was meant as a dismissal, but he could still sense Mark in the doorway. "Go _away_. I'm fine."

Mark lingered for a moment, watching Roger just lying there on the bed, and then sighed and turned away, softly shutting the door behind him. Why was it he couldn't believe a word Roger said?

For a moment or so after Mark left, Roger simply lay there—didn't sit up, didn't open his eyes. He could hear his roommate moving in the other room, and some muted conversation between Mark and Maureen, but it quickly became clear neither would be bothering him again soon, and he was fairly sure that Benny wasn't even home. He should just take the drugs. Why not? There was only a little left anyway, just enough to send him into comfortable oblivion for a few hours, enough to make him stop thinking about April, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her smile…

Roger rolled over and reached under the bed. His fingers hit something, and he pulled it out—a needle, and a half-empty bag of smack. He ran a thumb over the scarred skin of his forearm and sighed. This was weakness, he knew, the inability to face the world, but he was past the point of caring. He closed his eyes at the familiar pinprick of the needle in his arm, forcing his mind away from the virus that filled his blood like heroin.

* * *

Cold. So very cold. Except that it was the middle of May, and Roger knew the chills had nothing to do with the temperature. He clenched his jaw, fighting to ignore the goosebumps rising on his arms, the shooting pains in his muscles and bones.

_So this is what withdrawal is like_. He'd never been without a hit long enough for it to get quite this bad, not since he'd first begun using. But he could fight this off. Would fight this off. As if he had a choice. If he stayed in his room long enough for the symptoms to subside, if he didn't Mark know about it… Roger sighed and clutched the blanket tighter around himself, knowing that the effort was in vain, and tucked his chin to his chest, hunching his shoulders as he sat there on the bed, his entire body convulsing with shivers. He would survive this.

Or so he thought, until his stomach too decided to rebel as withdrawal kicked in full force. "Shit," he muttered softly and jumped off of the bed, rushing out of his room and to the bathroom, not bothering to stop and think that this was the first time he had left his room for several days now.

Inevitably, he wound up on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, blanket draped around him, kneeling over the toilet and retching, though he hadn't eaten a thing lately and had nothing in his stomach to throw up. His eyes closed, his breathing coming in short gasps, he didn't notice at first when Mark appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. When his stomach stopped heaving, Roger spat a mouthful of bile into the toilet and sank to the floor, pressing his sweating forehead to the tiles. There was no way he could make it back to his room in his present state. He'd just have to lay here on the bathroom floor until Mark or Maureen and Benny found him here, and they would look at him with their eyes full of the same old accusations, the same questions… He really should try to get back to his room before he had to face that.

"Roger," Mark said from the doorway, and it was all Roger could do to close his eyes in utter despair. So much for keeping Mark from finding out. He swallowed hard and slowly looked up at his roommate. Clearly, he had woken the filmmaker with the sounds of his being sick. Mark wasn't wearing his glasses, and he squinted sleepily at Roger, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The completely irrelevant thought sprang into Roger's head that Mark ought to be wearing more than boxers, as cold as it was, but… Oh. No. It was _he_ who was cold, not the loft.

When Roger said nothing to him, Mark sighed and gave his roommate the accusing look Roger had known was coming. "It's the drugs, isn't it? You're still using them. After all they've done—to April, to you—you still do this? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He was angry, Roger could tell. He kept his voice low to avoid waking Maureen and Benny, both doubtless asleep in their rooms, but his tone was filled with such venom that Roger might have cringed at it had he possessed the strength in his limbs. He might have answered the questions, too, had the muscles of his stomach not clenched once more just then. He quickly sat up and leaned over the toilet, retching and gagging miserably. He'd been doing this for far too long. A few hours without the drugs and already his body was pleading for more, more, _more_…

As he crouched there, gasping for air between choking, Mark hesitantly moved towards him, though Roger didn't notice until he felt Mark's hand rest on the small of his back, silently sympathetic. When he was done, Roger spat into the toilet once more, and slumped backwards again—but this time Mark was there, and he ended up half-leaning against Mark's bare chest, too exhausted to move away. Gently, Mark brushed a few loose strands of Roger's hair away from his face, the way a parent might soothe a sick child.

"You have to stop this, Roger," he whispered. "It's killing you."

Roger just shook his head weakly. Mark didn't understand. He just didn't. Not his fault, but not something Roger could ever hope to explain to him. After a moment, the musician just let out a wry, humorless chuckle, the sound tearing at his raw throat. "It's not the drugs that are killing me, Mark. This… this is because I don't have the drugs." He looked up at Mark half-pleadingly. "I'm out. Could you…?"

Mark just stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes widened as he realized what Roger was asking. Shock registered in those blue eyes, then disgust as he shoved Roger away from him. Unable to catch himself, Roger thumped into the wall and didn't attempt to sit back up. "No," Mark said, his voice more full of icy resolve than Roger had ever heard it. "The answer will _always_ be no. Buy your own drugs, Roger, but I'm not going to help you kill yourself." For a few moments, he simply _looked_ at him, jaw tight, expression contemptuous, and then he stood and started to walk out of the bathroom without a word more.

"Wait…" Roger said softly. He spoke quietly, and didn't think that Mark would even hear him, let alone listen, but by some miracle, Mark froze. Didn't turn around, but at least stopped walking away. Roger dropped his eyes to the floor, intently studying the pattern of tiles on the floor to avoid looking at Mark. "Please, Mark… I don't—I can't—" Somehow he couldn't get the words to come out right. At last, he gave up and looked up at Mark, who by then had turned around to look at him. "Help me. Please."

For an eternity, Mark simply stood there. He didn't say a word, though he did bite his lower lip slightly in obvious internal debate. Roger thought he might say no again, just turn and walk away, but at last he replied solemnly, "Alright. You want to quit? You want to end this for good?"  
Roger closed his eyes and nodded. Mark moved back to kneel by his side.

"We'll get you through this. You'll be alright. But you have to promise me… promise me you won't do this again. Ever. Promise me, Roger." His voice had dropped into an almost pleading tone, and Roger realized abruptly that Mark was… afraid for him.

The musician opened his eyes again and met Mark's gaze, his eyes somewhat hazy with the pain of withdrawal, but expression set and determined nonetheless. "I swear."

He didn't realize, at the time, that it was a lie.


	2. A Sorry Losing Game

**Notes:** I _meant_ this to be the last part of the story… but Mark and Roger insisted on making it longer. I'm not sure whether to appreciate that, or be annoyed with them. Beth, I apologize for killing Mimi… and for writing angst without any real slash to make it better. Cookies to Lael for catching the NYTW reference in the previous chapter, and thankies to everyone who reviewed!

* * *

**Chapter Two—A Sorry Losing Game**

_To lie to your lover  
__Is a sorry, losing game  
__To lie is a violation  
__And a shame_

_Don't you know  
__It's just as sure as the rising sun  
__Don't you know  
__To tell the truth is lesson number one_

"Roger," Mark said softly, his eyes on his friend as he unlocked the door to the loft. "Do you need to talk?"

He certainly needed to say _something_, because Mark hadn't heard a word from him for the past several hours, and he could count on one hand the number of times Roger had spoken over the past week. Since Mimi died, the best Mark could really expect from Roger was something less than being completely ignored.

He sighed as the lock clicked in the door, and he held open the door to let Roger in first. As the musician stepped past him into the loft, Mark looked up at him, glanced into those pain-filled eyes ringed with dark circles from a lack of sleep. This was a Roger he hadn't seen in years. Not since… No, he wouldn't think about that. He slipped into the loft behind Roger, closed the door, and then looked back to his friend, who was already stalking to his room. He wouldn't be out for days. "So I suppose you're not going to answer me, then?"

He expected Roger to keep on walking, ignore him just as before, but to his surprise, he turned around, something in his eyes suddenly shifting, seeming to darken with helpless rage. That rage had probably been building since Mimi's death, barely held in check, and now, returning home from her funeral, Mark had unknowingly provided the spark to set it off. He didn't even have time to brace himself for the explosion.

"Talk?" Roger snapped, his voice harsh as the crack of a bullwhip. "A hell of a lot of good that's going to do, Mark. I'm sure it's going to help Mimi now, huh?" His hands clenched into fists at his sides, probably unconsciously, but Mark noticed. Roger was dangerously on edge. "She's dead. Just like I will be before long. You can talk all you want, Mark, but no one else gives a fuck, least of all me!"

Mark clenched his jaw, uncertain what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke Roger further, but he couldn't just let this go in silence. At last, he said, "So is that all that matters? Mimi's dead and there's nothing else left for you to care about?" He knew the answer he wanted: _You matter, Mark. I care about you._ But that was something he would probably never hear from Roger, especially when he was this angry. Even knowing that, Roger's reply made Mark jerk backwards at its violence, as if at a physical blow.

"Yes, that's exactly right. Thanks so much for pointing it out to me. Bastard." He started to turn back to his room, and Mark reacted more on impulse than anything else. If he let Roger go now, he wouldn't see him for a week, wouldn't speak to him for a month… The filmmaker lunged forward, grabbed hold of Roger's wrist.

"Roger. Stop. Even if you've stopped caring, we care about you. Collins, Maureen, Joanne, even Benny. Me." The last came out a half-broken whisper, and he had to regain his composure before he could go on. "Don't turn your back on us." _On me._ "Don't lock yourself away from the people who care about you."

Roger pulled his arm away roughly, his jaw clenched tight in an effort to seem unaffected, but the mixture of emotions in his eyes betrayed him, too tangled for Mark to decide whether that was fury or… something else he saw in them. "Do yourself a favor and _stop caring_," he growled. "Save yourself the trouble. I don't need people to _care_ about me. I can take care of myself."

He shouldered past Mark and started to walk to the door, out of the loft.

"Roger!" Mark called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

The slamming of the door behind him finalized the simple statement. Mark stared at the door blankly, wondering when—and if—he would be back.

* * *

"What the hell am I doing?" Roger murmured softly to himself, staring at the needle in his hand. He could stop now. He didn't have to… Yes he did. He needed to stop feeling, stop caring. He needed that old rush.

_It used to be easier to find a vein,_ he thought as he slid the needle into the skin near the bend of his elbow. Then again, it was hardly surprising when he hadn't been using for two, three years. _I am such a hypocrite._ All that time spent trying to get Mimi to stop using… and here he was, shooting up on the street with a borrowed needle. Stupid. Dangerous. But he had nothing to lose.

Withdrawing the syringe from his arm, Roger sighed and rubbed at the tiny mark left on his skin without thinking about it. Already, he could feel the beginnings of a rush coming on, that feeling of euphoria he hadn't realized he missed until then. And what was he to do now? If he went back to the loft now… Mark would know the signs that he was high. So would any of the others, if they saw him like this. But it was late. Mark would be asleep by now, probably. He could go back to the loft and stay there until the high wore off… That was all Roger really wanted just then, to sit in his room in comfortable numbness, not have to think, not have to feel that ache of emptiness. He could do that.

Roger started down the street in the direction of home, a few blocks away. From here, he knew he could find his way back to the loft no matter how high he was. He hadn't made it half a block down the darkened street, though, when something seemed to contract around his chest, making breathing difficult. A sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and he swayed on his feet.

_Shit._

Something was wrong. Too much, too strong, too pure… something. An irrelevant thought slid across the surface of his mind, an echoing memory.

_"Promise me you won't do this again. Ever. Promise me, Roger."_

_"I swear."_

Roger stumbled… and collapsed.


	3. For Telling Even One Lie

**Notes:** This is going on far longer than I ever thought it could. But I swear, only one more chapter (because I'm running out of lyrics in this song). Oh, and somehow some implied Collins/Benny crept into this chapter… but don't worry, there's more Mark/Roger. Again, thank you for the reviews. They make me happy, which makes Mark and Roger more talkative.

* * *

**Chapter Three – For Telling Even One Lie**

_I remember being told to be careful  
__For telling even one lie  
__Would surely lead to more problems  
__Of alarming dimensions  
__I wish I had paid attention_

The ticking of the second hand seemed unnaturally loud in the complete silence of the loft, and Mark found himself tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch in a nervous rhythm just to fill the quiet. He chanced another glance at the clock, although he knew he was only making himself worry all the more by doing so.

_It's only 1:23. That's not so bad. Roger's stayed out much later before. Maybe he's not coming home at all tonight. I should go to bed._

Mark looked at the closed door. True, Roger _had_ stayed out much later before, and some nights he _didn't_ come home… but this was different. This was the night after Mimi's funeral, and Roger should not be alone now. _I have to find him._

He picked up the phone upon deciding that and dialed the number of the person he trusted most to help. It rang. And rang. And…

Someone picked up. Mark heard a clatter on the other end, the kind of sounds made by someone half-asleep trying to figure out how to work a phone correctly. Then a muffled, sleep-fogged voice. "Hello?"

Mark growled under his breath. Benny. Right number, wrong person. "Benny, it's Mark. Give the phone to Collins."

"Nice to talk to you too," Benny mumbled sleepily. The sound of rattling on the other end of the line, Benny's still-sleepy voice as he attempted to get Collins to take the phone… Mark balled his free hand into a fist, fighting himself not to scream with frustration. At last, Collins did take the phone, and Mark let out a sigh as he heard his friend's voice.

"What is it?" Collins asked, sounding slightly more alert and awake than Benny. "_Who_ is it?"

Again, Mark bit back a growl and repeated, "It's Mark. I need your help."

"Do you know what _time_ it is?"

"Yes I know what—Collins! That's not important! Roger left right after we got home and… he's not back yet. He was… really upset when he left. We had a fight…"  
A long pause. "How long ago was this?"

"I don't know, exactly. Three, four hours maybe? Help me find him. Please." Mark closed his eyes, biting his lip as he waited for Collins' response.

"I'll be over as soon as I can," Collins said finally. Mark released the breath he had unconsciously been holding, and Collins paused before he went on, his tone sincere. "We'll find him, Mark. I promise."

Mark swallowed back the choked feeling in his throat. "I hope so," he whispered, and slowly set down the receiver, forcing himself not to dwell on where Roger could be at this time of night.

* * *

"Where did you think he might have gone? Did he say anything?"

"No, he just said… out!" Mark said. Standing outside of his building with Collins, he momentarily considered slamming his head against the brick wall out of sheer frustration, but decided that that wouldn't do any good. He glanced down the dark street, then back to Collins. "I've told you that three times already."

Collins put a hand on Mark's shoulder, and Mark stopped fidgeting. He hadn't realized he _had_ been fidgeting until just then. Collins met his eyes and told him firmly, "Calm down. Panicking isn't going to help anything. Okay?" Mark nodded, and Collins went on, "We'll start looking down that way, and… You're sure you don't want to get the others to help look? They'd understand, and Joanne has a cell phone, so we can split up and if we find him we could… call a doctor or something. I mean…" He grimaced slightly. "If he needs it." Which, they both knew, was a definite possibility.

"Okay, okay," Mark said quickly, desperate to stop talking and start looking for Roger. He blinked as Collins held out an all too familiar-looking cell phone to him.

"Benny's," Collins explained with a quick smile. "Take it. He won't even notice it's gone." Mark took it, but raised an eyebrow at him. Benny, not notice, when he was practically attached to his precious phone? Collins seemed to ignore the skeptical expression. "I'll run over to Maureen and Joanne's and get them. Call Joanne's cell if you find Roger, alright?"  
"I will," Mark said, and slipped the phone into his pocket. Collins squeezed his shoulder, gave him a reassuring smile, and then turned and hurried off in the direction fo Joanne and Maureen's apartment. Mark didn't spare a moment to look after him—he took off down the street at a run, glancing into the shadows in the desperate hope that he might somehow spot Roger.

Where _would_ he have gone? Not the Life, not alone. The same with the Cat Scratch Club, especially with Mimi gone. Which left other, less comfortable places, with less memories attached. Anonymous bars and clubs, maybe just some dark alleyway. Places Roger could lose himself. Mark choked back a lump of silent dread in his throat.

Racing headlong down the street, wrapped in his own thoughts and worried, Mark didn't take care to watch where he was going, exactly—and consequently tripped over something—someone?—sprawled across the sidewalk. He tumbled to the ground, yelping as he scraped the length of one forearm raw on the sidewalk. For a second, he simply lay there, half-stunned, and reached to gingerly touch his bloodied arm. It stung, and he winced, sitting up slowly and glancing back to the person he had tripped over. His stomach flipped over as he let out a choked gasp.

"Roger!" Mark grasped Roger's shoulder, clenching his fingers around a fistful of his friend's coat. Roger's breathing seemed labored and shallow, coming in fits and starts. With his free hand, Mark placed two fingers on Roger's throat, fumbling for a pulse, but he didn't manage to find one, either because it was too weak, or because Mark was too panicked to calm down enough to search for a pulse properly. "Roger, Roger, look at me, please Roger…"

Roger's eyelids fluttered weakly, his chest heaving in a convulsive gasp for air. Mark blinked back tears and touched Roger's cheek lightly, all but whimpering, "Roger, can you look at me? Open your eyes, please, just—"

The songwriter drew another strained breath, opened his eyes. His pupils were mere pinpoints against the blue iris. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes slid closed, lips still moving, but whatever he was saying was too quiet for Mark to hear. Mark gripped Roger's wrist with his free hand and turned it so that he could see the inside of his arm—sure enough, there was the needle mark, just below the bend of Roger's elbow.

"Bastard," Mark muttered softly, and hurriedly pulled Benny's phone from his pocket. What was the number to Joanne's cell phone? Now was _not_ the time to have a lapse of memory. Wincing, he dialed a number he hoped was right. "Joanne? Thank God. Is—is Collins there yet?"

"Yes, we just left the apartment. Are you okay? You sound… Never mind. Where are you and what's wrong?"

Silently, Mark thanked God for Joanne. Always businesslike and to the point, exactly what he—what _Roger_—needed right then. He gripped Roger's hand, hard, as if by holding tight he might prevent him from slipping away, and glanced down the street in an attempt to ascertain exactly _where_ he was. He hadn't been paying much attention in his mad dash searching for Roger. At length, he told Joanne, "I found Roger. He… I think he overdosed or something. I'm on Avenue B, a little past 14th Street, I think…"

"He _what_?" Joanne asked almost disbelievingly. Before Mark could answer, she went on, "Never mind. We'll be right there. Stay with him, try to keep him conscious if you can manage it, and don't go anywhere. I'm calling an ambulance."

Mark heard a beep as she hung up on him, and then the dead tone of an empty line in his ear. He grimaced and slipped the phone into his pocket. Holding one of Roger's large, guitar-callused hands in both of his own, he bent over his best friend, rocking slowly back and forth like a child as he knelt there beside Roger on the cold sidewalk. "Don't you dare die on me," he whispered, though almost certain that Roger couldn't hear him. "I'm tired of losing people. I can't lose you." He let out a shuddering breath and pressed his lips briefly to the back of Roger's hand. God, he felt so cold… "I love you, Roger. Stay here, for me…"

His world blurred into a haze of tears and, somewhere nearby, the screaming of a siren.


	4. To Tell the Truth

**Notes:** Eeeh, angstyness. I really didn't _want_ to end the story on this note (even I have my limits of angst…), but the characters made me. I apologize. I'll attempt to rectify the situation in a later story. Anyway. This is really the end, I promise—it's completed! Whoo… Thanks to everyone who reviewed—that's what really keeps me writing these things, and it makes me very happy to know that people _are_ reading my stuff.

* * *

**Chapter Four—To Tell the Truth**

_Don't you know  
__It's just as sure as the rising sun  
__Don't you know  
__To tell the truth is lesson number one_

When Roger opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a tiled ceiling, lying on a narrow, unfamiliar bed. Not home, then. And obviously not the alleyway where he'd stuck that needle in his arm, the last thing he remembered clearly. So… where _was_ he?

Someone nearby coughed, and Roger heard the shifting of cloth on cloth, realizing after a moment that there must be someone in the room with him. God, what was he _on_? His brain was fogged, and he couldn't quite think clearly, but it wasn't like with heroin. This had to be something else. Sluggishly, he tried to roll over on his side, but stopped when he felt a tugging on his arm, and blinked in sudden realization at the IV in his arm. Shit, he'd really fucked up this time, hadn't he?

Ignoring the pain of the IV needle being pulled tight against his skin as he moved his arm, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and glanced over to see Mark and Collins both sitting in chairs pulled up beside his bed. Mark had sort of curled up sideways in the chair in what looked like a very uncomfortable position, his neck bent awkwardly with his head lying semi-cushioned on the arm of the chair, one of his arms hanging off of the chair entirely. Someone must have removed his glasses after he fell asleep, and dark circles under his eyes attested to how little sleep he must have gotten. Collins, on the other hand, looked wide awake, and for a moment he simply exchanged an unreadable glanced with Roger before nudging Mark gently.

"Hey. Roger's awake now."

Mark sat bolt upright almost immediately—an awkward procedure, given his original position, that nearly resulted in him falling off the chair. A red line ran down his cheek from where his face had been pressed to the arm of the chair while he slept, and his head stuck out at odd angles on one side. It almost reminded Roger of that night… Oh God.

Mostly to avoid looking at Mark, to avoid the guilt that would bring on, Roger took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. Definitely a hospital room—as if he couldn't have guessed, with the IV in his arm—with the midmorning sun streaming through the window. If only he could remember anything that had happened last night, after he'd gotten high, but when he tried to think… Nothing. He decided to risk asking.

"What happened?"

He looked back at Mark as he said it, and saw the sudden shift in his friend's expression, the darkening look in his eyes. The filmmaker put his glasses back on and shoved himself out of the chair, leaning over Roger and bracing himself by placing both hands on the edge of the bed. "What _happened_? You left the loft and got high, you fucking idiot. You almost killed yourself, and the doctors had to pump you full of methadone and God knows what else to keep you alive. What were you _thinking_?"

Roger could only sit there, transfixed by that look of absolute fury in Mark's cool blue eyes. Fury… and hurt, though clearly Mark had made an effort to bury that beneath his anger. "I don't know," Roger choked out at last. "I just… without Mimi… I couldn't… Mark, please don't—"

"Don't _what_?" Mark snapped, almost a challenge. Roger could tell Mark was looking for a reason to keep up his anger, to scream, curse, yell. He wanted a reason to hate him. Roger fought back the words he had been about to say, deciding instead upon something else.

"Please don't look at me like that. I won't do it again."

Mark's hands clenched on the edge of the bed, hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Absently, and completely irrelevantly, Roger noticed that the entire side of Mark's right forearm was scabbed, as if he's scraped it against something recently. The methadone must have been messing with his head, to make him notice something like that at a time like this. Mark's voice snapped him back to reality.

"You said that the last time, Roger. You swore you wouldn't do this ever again, but just look where we are. Look where _you_ are! You expect me to believe you now?" His chin trembled with held back emotion, his voice beginning to quaver, but there remained a fierce bite to his tone as he growled, "You _lied_. Why should I even _think_ you actually mean it this time?"

Roger looked over Mark's shoulder at Collins, silently pleading for help, but Collins simply met his eyes and shook his head slightly, making it clear that this was between Mark and Roger alone. He cleared his throat and slowly rose from his chair, beginning to edge towards the door. "I'm going to leave the two of you alone for a while…"

Mark didn't even seem to notice Collins' departure, just continued glowering at Roger wordlessly. Finally, Roger looked back at his filmmaker, shocked to see that Mark had started to cry, tears tracing their way silently down his cheeks. Just seeing that nearly made Roger break down, knowing he had made Mark this upset. At that point, he would have said or done anything to fix this, just to make Mark trust him again. He reached out and took Mark's hand, twining his finger's through Mark's before he could pull away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking. I'll do anything you want me to to prove it, Mark. Anything. Please…"

For a moment or two, Mark said nothing, clenched his jaw as if steeling himself for something. He withdrew his hand from Roger's and answered bitterly, with unmistakable pain in his voice, "You _lied_, Roger. And you will again. I hope it was worth it."

He leaned forward, slipping his hand around the back of Roger's neck and pulling him towards him. Roger didn't have the chance to pull away, really, although he probably wouldn't have even given the opportunity. In an instant, he felt Mark's mouth crushed against his, a fierce, desperate, breathless kiss, Mark holding tight to him as if he meant to never let go… and then he released him. Took a step away from the bed, another step towards the door.

"I can't deal with this anymore, Roger," he said softly, his voice low, hushed, spoken in a half-shocked tone as if he couldn't quite believe the words himself. "I'm leaving the loft. I'll be gone by the time they release you from the hospital. I—Goodbye." He seemed to choke on the last word, and then he turned and hurried out of the room, head bowed. His final word seemed to reverberate in the air, the death kneel of friendship, of affection, of all they'd ever had and might have had. The end of… everything.

For the longest time, Roger simply stared at the doorway, willing Mark to come back, to change his mind, but it was Collins that walked through the door, after a couple of minutes. Collins blinked at him, frowned in consternation. "What did you _say_ to him?" he asked after a moment. "Mark was crying, he wouldn't talk to me, he…"

Roger shook his head slowly, disbelievingly, and Collins trailed off. The songwriter's voice broke as he began to speak, the hollow truth falling heavily from his lips. "He's gone."


End file.
